


The Voldemort Manor: Part II

by kedavranox



Series: The Voldemort Manor [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 04:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11350209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedavranox/pseuds/kedavranox
Summary: They say our experiences make us who we are, but Draco hopes this isn't true. At least he has Harry to help him figure it all out.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I make no promises about this fic. I've been working on it for a while, and I'm not sure it'll be what anyone wants, but I love where it's going, and I wanted to share.

 

London, England

June 2005

_ Draco, _

_ The property in Sherborne has turned out to be more than adequate. Even the preservation spells on the wine cellar have been successful.  _

_ The solicitor has informed me of the Gringotts account you’ve left for my use.  I’m don’t know  what you’ve been thinking, Draco, but I don’t need that kind of capital. Unless you think I intend to purchase a small country? _

_ I’m sure everyone at Plunket and Witherby had something to say about it. Do your best not to antagonise them. The estate is yours now. You’ll be dealing your solicitors for the rest of your days. _

_ Life continues. Doing the shopping is always difficult. Mindy insists in she can do it all, but I refuse to remain a shut in. If the Wizarding public prefers to pretend I don’t exist, they need only avert their eyes. Your mother says I should shop with her in the Muggle districts, but I haven’t allowed it. _

_ Yet. _

_ I do wish you could find a moment to visit. I have things I’d like to say to you, if you’d let me. Your mother and I— _

 

 

Draco tosses the letter aside and massages his temples with his fingers. He picks up the glass of whiskey sitting on the table beside him, swilling the amber liquid around for a few moments, and then he drains the contents with a grateful groan. It burns his chest and he closes his eyes for a minute, chasing the sensation long after it’s gone. 

It’s his third letter from his father in as many weeks and Draco hasn’t been able to respond. He likes to pretend has no clue why Lucius is so keen to talk, but, at least, in his mind, he can admit what is going on. 

His parents’ marriage is over.  

Why this should affect him at all now is beyond his understanding. He is a grown man. He hasn’t lived with his parents since he was a teenager. Yet the thought of his parent’s separation is enough to send a tendrils of panic and gloom throughout his body, and a lancing need for Harry in his chest.

Narcissa is still in France and after staying with her a few months in the house in Passy, Lucius decided to move to the cottage in Dorset. They don’t seem to be wanting to reconvene their previous domestic bliss either. The thought of their unusual separation is enough to put Draco on edge, and given that Narcissa’s been trying to talk to him as well, Draco is sure that nothing good will come of responding of his parents any time soon.  

They’re trying to tell him they want a divorce and Draco’s trying not to react to that like a five year old. It's a complete reversal of their previous roles - with Draco having always been the one who wanted his parents to talk to him more, to include him in their decisions, in the way they loved each other -  but now, avoiding  the issue completely seems like a better solution for all.

He glances at his pocket watch and sighs.  Harry’s Portkey is set to arrive in just under an hour, and Draco hasn’t even been able to get the house in order. Not that Harry would notice. In fact, Draco has a sneaking suspicion that his tendency - nay compulsion -  to clean up makes Harry upset. Harry, the overanalyzing sod that he is, thinks Draco's been so scarred by his probation in the Manor that his impetus to clean is just another one of the psychological faults he now bears like a bleeding cross for everyone to see. 

Maybe Harry was right. Maybe Draco's completely off his head. Either way, Draco doesn't want to examine any of his dysfunctions too closely. 

And there were quite a few to examine. 

It wasn’t as though Draco’s had much else to do. Harry’s consulting position with the new Defence Department in the Ministry for Magic takes him away for weeks at a time. Draco does his best to seem normal. He even pretends to be active while  Harry is away, spinning tales of visiting Teddy and Andromeda with his mother, of getting involved in Weasley lunches and Sunday get togethers, of responding to Teddy Nott’s frequent letters asking him over for a cuppa and catch up. In reality, whenever Harry is away, Draco simply... ceases to exist. 

For the duration of Harry’s most recent trip -  from which he was yet to return - (Draco checks his watch again) Draco has been holed up in Grimmauld place. Six weeks, and he's  only ventured out to do the shopping (he refuses to keep an Elf) and his daily jogs. Even then, Draco stuck to Muggle districts and never lingered for more than an hour. 

Surprisingly, his mother has had little to say about his hermitage, she’s visited, of course - three times in the past month and and a half - but even then, she seemed distracted and flustered. Perhaps thinking about the divorce she’s been planning from his father.  

In essence, Draco fills his days by puttering about the house, avoiding his father and torturing himself by reading articles about his family in the   _ Prophet _ , and articles in  _ Witch Weekly  _ attempting to predict when Harry will come to his senses and find himself  _ ‘someone worthy of his company’ _ . 

(And there were days Draco wondered this himself.) 

One rainy afternoon, he found himself, accompanied by a large helping of Scotch, reading an article about the revelation of Randall Newman’s as the mysterious anonymous donor behind Harry’s Defence Department in what the paper had called  ‘ _ an honourable attempt at redeeming his character after his over publicized familial tragedies.’ _  That article had ended up in flames, and Draco hadn’t used his wand to do it. 

To say he was wallowing in his problems would be a fair assessment, but not one he would ever fully admit to himself. Besides. He and Harry have three weeks of vacation (using the word loosely, seeing as Draco had nothing to vacation  _ from _ ) to spend together. 

It was all very hush hush, a surprise trip planned by Harry in Skopelos, the island he fell in love with years ago and the island where Draco had truly fell in love with him. 

Harry’d gone as far as to rent a house for the occasion instead of booking the usual hotel room. Merlin knew he probably did something ridiculous like renting a castle or something (were there castles in Greece?) 

The average onlooker wouldn’t be able to tell, especially when they got a load of the riffraff throw rugs and hand me down furniture that cluttered Grimmauld Place place, but Harry could be really extravagant in his money spending. Especially on gifts for Teddy and Draco. It was sweet and sometimes embarrassing, but mostly it terrified Darco. In almost two years of fighting and fucking, of Harry’s frequent trips away, and bouts of wallowing from Draco, they’d never told each other  _ ‘I love you’ _ . They never used words to define their relationship. They were simply Harry and Draco. 

Their friends and family knew they existed as a pair, but to say out loud exactly what they meant to each other was apparently something they were both incapable of.  They’d never even mentioned being exclusive, and while Draco’s fairly certain Harry isn’t out there fucking other people, there are moments he wavers in his confidence - especially after finding out Newman was the anonymous backer for the Defence Initiative.  (And wasn’t  _ that _ a row for the record books - there’s still a scorch mark on the bathroom door.) Still, the rational side of his mind knows that those are his issues, that Harry wouldn’t fuck someone else, or at least, that Harry would be man enough to toss Draco  out on his arse first.

Draco pours another glass of whiskey, his third for the evening (but who’s counting)  and taps his finger against the glass contemplatively as he considers actually leaving the house to meet Harry at the Portkey office. It would be the first and only time he made such a venture, if he went through with it. If he gets dressed in under a minute and hightails it to the Leaky, he might make it into Diagon Alley and the international Portkey office in maybe twenty minutes. 

He swallows, thinking about the stupidly delighted look this would put on on Harry’s face, what it would be like to surprise him, to pull Harry into his arms and kiss him right there, out in the open, a giant FUCK YOU to Rita Skeeter and her ilk, but then the remembers how the world works. The Wizarding world at any rate. 

The last time they’d been in Diagon Alley together, almost a year ago exactly, someone had tossed an empty cauldron at the back of his head. A fucking cauldron. He went down on his knees, his arm flailing wildly before Harry caught him, his eyes wide, then narrowed into slits  by his fury. 

When he had collected himself, Draco had staggered upwards, shoving Harry’s off him, (he was checking Draco for damage) and Disapparated into the safety and darkness of Grimmauld place. And not a minute later, there Harry had found him, sitting in the basement kitchen, beside  the long wooden table, blood flowing down his nape. 

That was the last time he went into Diagon Alley

Everything had gotten worse when the Wizarding world at large had learned about Harry and Draco’s relationship. Apart from the whispers about the confirmation that Harry’s indiscretions with Draco during his probation were true, most were more horrified that Harry had chosen a former convict, Death Eater, and general non-society contributing low-life for companionship.  

As  infuriating as it was to be the target of the hate himself, it was doubly worse when the target was Harry. It made Draco experience a level of self loathing he had not known he was capable of. When Harry got the occasional howler, or the well-meaning stranger tried to make him see the error in his judgement, when even Harry’s colleagues in the Defence Initiative shut Draco out of the conversation at dinner parties, or galas and events and Harry tried to pretend the articles in the press weren’t driving him mad, Draco felt it more than any stupid cauldron, more than anything that had ever been done to him. 

He’s startled out of his maudlin musings by the sound of Harry’s Apparition onto the landing downstairs. He looks down at his now empty glass, faintly nonplussed, and then he glances at his watch again. Had he really spent almost half an hour, sitting here feeling sorry for himself?

He stands up abruptly, swaying a bit because of course he’s complete toasted after three whiskeys and nothing to eat. When was the last time he’d eaten? It wasn’t today, but surely yesterday he had something? Tea even. 

He shakes his head, sets down his glass and carefully takes the stairs down to the entryway where Harry is finally  _ finally _ home. Draco stands unnoticed and observes Harry whose face is peppered with at least a few days worth of rakish stubble, whose hair is its usual dishevelled,  sexy mess, whose Henley shirt has the first few buttons undone and is casually rolled up at the sleeves, whose unselfconscious, casual beauty still takes Draco’s breath away. 

Harry removes his sunglasses and sets it on the side table along with his wand and his Muggle contraptions, and Draco remains struck still, caught in a strange déjà vu - a memory from a few years before when he’d almost splinched himself coming to look for Harry. 

Harry spots him, smiles and the effect is instantaneous. Draco crosses the room in two strides, and then he kisses Harry, wrapping one palm behind his neck, threading his fingers through too long hair gripping the back of Harry’s head possessively. 

Desperately. 

Harry releases a muffled moan into Draco’s mouth and Draco swallows it, walking Harry backwards until Harry takes the hint and lets his back hit the wall behind them. Draco slips his palms inside Harry’s jeans, palming his arse, and lifting him up onto his toes, pressing his back against the wall. He digs his nails into the thin cotton underwear separating Harry’s bare arse from his fingertips and Harry lets out a needy groan. 

Draco slants his head and deepens the kiss, refamiliarising himself with the feel of Harry’s full lips and the taste of him, the faint yet discernible treacle-tart-stolen-cigarette flavour of his lover and sighs into his mouth, relieved. 

There were times when he thought - where he contemplated what it would be like if Harry didn’t return to him. If he was hurt or killed or just plain decided to move on from Draco and what they had. But it didn’t happen.

With a small grunt, Draco lifts Harry up off the ground until Harry wraps his lean legs around Draco’s waist. Harry’s head falls back, exposing his pale neck, and Draco leans in and kisses the pale skin of his Adam’s apple, nipping it lightly before licking the length of Harry’s collarbone. 

Harry groans, gripping Draco’s hair lightly. ‘Jesus, Draco.’

Draco rolls his hips and leans back a little fumbling with Harry’s jeans and then his own, until both their cocks are exposed, hard flushed and leaking.

_ ‘Draco.’ _

Harry arches his back as Draco takes them both in hand, spreading their precome messily along their lengths.

Harry drapes his arms over Draco’s shoulders, lifting his hips higher, his hard cock jutting upwards into Draco’s fist.  Draco’s thighs burn from the strain of holding them both up, but he can take it. He strokes both of their lengths in a solemn, matter of fact rhythm, his breaths coming in low pants.

Harry rests his forehead on Draco’s, his warm breath ghosting Draco’s cheeks, and says, ‘Kiss me.’

Draco tilts his face upwards, catching Harry’s soft lips in his. Harry deftly slips his tongue inside and grips Draco’s shoulders hard. 

Draco shudders and strokes them both with more urgency, the muscles in his thighs quivering as his orgasm starts to build. With a sudden shout, Harry’s body stiffens and he comes in Draco’s hand, slicking Draco’s cock with his semen. 

Harry’s hand tightens in Draco’s hair as he rides the afterglow of his orgasm, nibbling on Draco’s earlobe, teasing the soft flesh between his teeth. The feel of Harry’s breath along the sensitive space beneath Draco’s neck is what finally pushes him over, and he comes between them, semen splashing over Harry’s Henley, darkening the navy blue into a damp black spot, white come snacking down the curve of Harry’s hipbone. 

Harry finds Draco’s mouth again as he lowers himself to the ground and Draco buries his face in Harry’s neck. In his chest and the tips of his fingers, he feels familiar pulse of of Harry’s impossible magic increase as he Apparates them both to their bedroom. 

They fall in a heap on their four poster oak bed, the soft duvet making a whooshing sound beneath them.

The both crawl up onto the pillows, lying down on their sides, facing each other. Draco reaches across and plucks Harry’s now crooked and foggy glasses off his face, leaning over him to rest it on the nightstand. After Draco sets it down, Harry wraps his hand around Draco’s bicep and Draco lets his arm fall, wrapping it around Harry and pulling him close.

‘Well,’ Harry murmurs. ‘Someone got into the liquor cabinet this evening.’

‘M’not drunk.’

Harry laughs. ‘Draco, I could get drunk off of your breath. How many have you had?’

‘One or two.’

Harry pushes a lock of Draco’s hair of his damp forehead. ‘And when last did you eat?’

Draco huffs and leans in to kiss him. Harry lets him, laying pliant beneath Draco as Draco snogs him thoroughly. 

When they pull apart, Harry is breathless, lips swollen, his gaze unfocused. ‘You’ve certainly improved your distraction techniques.’

Draco ducks his head, sliding his body lower and pushing Harry’s shirt up, taking one nipple into his mouth. He circles it with his tongue, biting down gently as Harry arches his back, laying one hand gently in Draco’s hair.

‘I missed you,’ Draco murmurs, pressing a soft kiss on Harry’s chest.

Harry stills for the briefest of seconds, and then he gently pulls Draco up for another snog. 

‘I missed you, too,’ he says when they pull apart.

Draco lets his hand wander down to Harry’s jeans where,  _ surprise surprise _ , Harry is getting hard again. He takes Harry’s cock in hand, teasing the head with the pad of his thumb, and Harry groans and bucks his hips.

Draco bites gently on the space just beneath Harry’s ribs. ‘Yeah?’ he murmurs, ‘Fuck me. Show me how much.’

~~

Cracking his eyes open in the morning is painful.

Draco whimpers and turns on his back, glancing briefly at Harry, propped up on his side, looking down at Draco with a knowing smirk on his face.

‘Before you say anything,’ Draco says. ‘At least get me some water.’

A glass of water floats into his vision and Draco sits up warily, gulping it down and resting his head on the headboard gently and with a sigh. Harry slides next to him, gently taking Draco’s glass and resting it on the night stand.

Draco risks a side glance. Harry’s completely starkers, with more than a few love bites all along his body, there are nail marks along his shoulders.

‘Fuck,’ Draco says, feeling his face heat. ‘I… jumped you.’

Harry grins. ‘You did a bit, yeah.’

Draco traces of the more vivid scratches along Harry’s hip with his fingertips. His mouth twitches. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘I would say I was sorry…’

‘But you’re not.’ Harry leans over and kisses him softly. ‘Neither am I.’

Harry ghosts his fingers along Draco’s side. ‘Besides, I got in a few marks of my own.’

Draco glances down at his own body, but seeing nothing, he gives Harry a shrewd look. ‘I’ve got a great big red mark on my neck, don’t I?’

‘Hmmm. Right here,’ he says, kissing the hollow of Draco’s neck, just above his collar bone. ‘Looks good on you.’

Draco huffs, fingering his neck gently along his slightly more prominent collarbones. 

Harry’s smile fades a bit as he follows the path of Draco’s fingers with his eyes with a crease between his brows. 

Draco reaches out and softens it with his fingertips. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says lightly. ‘You can feed me now.’

Harry catches Draco’s hand, nipping the tips of his fingers lightly.  ‘You know that whiskey isn’t one of the main food groups right.’

Draco rolls his eyes. ‘You have three weeks to show me your food groups.’

Harry’s mouth twitches.  ‘For now, I’ll settle for breakfast.’

‘Done. I know the perfect place.’

‘Actually I was thinking…’

Draco’s mood plummets. ‘If you’re going to say Diagon Alley, you might as well give it up now, Harry.’

Harry shakes his head, slipping of the bed and looking around for, presumably, some form of clothing.

‘No. But Molly’s asked us over for breakfast, and I was thinking we could take her up on it for once.’

Draco’s immediate impulse is to refuse, but as usual, the look on Harry’s face - coupled with the sex hair, the nakedness, and the ridiculous eyes - makes him swallow it all down and give Harry a terse nod instead. ‘Okay, all right. Just… don’t invite my mother.’

Harry glances at him briefly, finally finding a towel to wrap around his waist. ‘Oh yeah?’ he says. ‘What’s happening with you two?’

‘She and Lucius are having a row.’

For some time now, Draco’s resorted to calling his father Lucius whenever he speaks of him out loud. He’s not sure when it started, but if ever  he imagines himself confronted with his father in the flesh, he can’t quite fathom calling his father  _ Lucius _ to his face

Draco hasn’t seen him since Lucius’ release from his sentence at the Voldemort Manor only five months ago. 

The bed dips beside him, and Harry’s quiet voice pushes away all thoughts of anything else. ‘Want to talk about it?’

Draco shakes his head. ‘They’ll get over it soon,’ he says. ‘I just wish they’d stop trying to get me involved.’

Harry gives him a measuring look, and then he unexpectedly kisses Draco’s forehead. ‘Come join me in the shower,’ he says. ‘I’ll teach you another food group.’

~~

 


	2. Chapter 2

Molly Weasley is going to land him into a whole heap of trouble.

Draco comes upon this realisation no less than five minutes after walking into the Weasley's home. Apart from the fact that she keeps pointing out how thin Draco is (he’s not  _ thin _ , he’s lean), and that he looks like he hasn’t been sleeping (mostly true), the real damage comes when she hints at not having seen Draco for three months. AKA  _ the entire time _  Harry was away.

‘Did you leave the house at all, dear?’ she asks, refilling Harry’s teacup as she bustles around them at the dining table. ‘It looks like you haven’t seen the sun. It’s summer!’

All of these declarations would have been all right, if he hadn’t left Harry with the impression that he’d visited the Weasleys at least once or twice.

Harry gives him a look across the breakfast table, and Draco hastily swallows what’s left of his tea.

‘I’m sorry Mrs. Weasley, I’ve been—’ 

He’s saved from saying what he’s  _ been _ by Mrs. Weasley’s interruption.

‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ she says. ‘Call me Molly, Draco.’

Draco chokes down a bite of scone, and he glances at Harry imploringly — he would probably never reach the point where calling Mrs. Weasley anything but Mrs. Weasley would feel comfortable — but Harry has his jaw set in that way that lets Draco know they’re going to have a row as soon as they’re alone.

Mrs. Weasley looks between them, seeming to pick up on the sudden tension in the room, and she sets her teacup down. They sit awkwardly for a few moments, tea cups clinking loudly, the sound of Harry chasing around a spare bit of jam with his knife, echoing throughout the room, when an owl perches at the Weasley’s kitchen window.

Mrs. Weasley sighs with apparent relief for the distraction, and then she gets up, frowning when she plucks the letter from the owl, turning it over in her hands. 

‘It’s for you, Harry,’ she says, handing him the letter when she returns to the table.

Harry raises his brows, clearly surprised, but he looks at the unfamiliar seal on the back of the letter with some apprehension. After a furtive glance in Draco’s direction, he sets it aside (a disappointment to both Draco and Mrs. Weasley) and they finish up their awkward brunch in silence.

The Floo sounds loudly, and a gangly Ron Weasley steps out of the fireplace, dusting his robes and looking around. He's so tall, he always looks out of place in the Weasley’s compact home - at least to Draco.

Ron smiles as he  spots them both with his mother and walks over with a grin, tapping the back of Harry’s head lightly as he nicks a scone from Harry’s plate. 

‘Could have told us you were back, wanker,’ he says sitting in the empty seat beside Harry and nodding briefly at Draco.

His mother thumps him behind the head and Draco smiles into his teacup. 

‘Language, Ronald.’

‘Aw, Mum, come on!  _ Wanker? _ Even Ginny says it.’

‘I’ll not have that talk at my table if you please,’ Mrs. Weasley says sternly. She softens the blow by adding, ‘Here, have some bacon, Ron, you look half starved.’

As Ron stuffs himself with bacon, Harry finally says, ‘I only got in last night, mate.’

Ron nods to the envelope lying conspicuously on the table. ‘Got one of those, too, did you? Hermione hasn’t stopped talking about it all morning. It sounds bloody awful. Isn’t it your time off?’

Harry glances at Draco. ‘It is,’ he says quietly.

All at once, Draco knows whatever is in that letter is going to spoil his entire fucking week. He wipes his mouth with his napkin, excusing himself from the table with a feeble excuse of needing some air. 

Well, maybe it wasn’t just an excuse. The air did seem to become a bit cloying what with Harry staring at him guiltily, and Ron looking between them like he expected Draco to grow a second head. 

He steps into the garden and side steps a wandering gnome with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. After only a few minutes in the heat, the back of his thin  shirt begins to stick to his skin. He kicks at a stone and sighs deeply when he hears Harry ‘s footsteps behind him.

He squares his shoulders, preparing to put on a brave face and pretend that the planned three week in Skopelos isn’t something he’s been looking forward to since the moment Harry left. 

He turns to face him, knowing that if he forces a smile, Harry wall see straight through it, so he tries for a neutral expression instead.

‘Harry, it's fine,’ Draco says

Harry steps closer to him, making the space between them seem nonexistent. ‘It’s only six days. You can go on ahead of me and I’d meet you at the house.’

This time, Draco does force a smile. It doesn’t work. 

Harry jams his fingers through unruly hair with a frustrated sigh. He still hasn’t shaved, much to Mrs. Weasley’s displeasure, and he looks miserable with his brow creased with worry and his laugh lines more prominent than ever before.

‘Draco, I don’t want to go,’ he says.

‘Harry, it’s fine. It’s your job.’

‘Just let me explain. The Ministry is reneging the sanction against non-approved Dark Arts spells. That’s  _ every single _ spell the Defence initiative managed to sanction last year. They’re trying to get them back into usage for the Aurors and the MLEs. But they’ve done it…’ Harry waves his hand in a vague sort of way. ‘It’s completely backhanded. The Wizengemot voted without calling a full sitting, and it’s passed for review in Geneva. Newman only heard about it through one of his contacts.’

‘Newman?’

Harry closes his eyes briefly. ‘Draco. Don’t— I don’t like it, you  _ know _ I don’t like it, but he’s the only contact we have on this, and the only one willing to back us financially. You know how hard I’ve worked to get spells like Sectusempra sanctioned. Now they’re trying overturn everything we’ve done.’ 

‘I get it, Harry.’

Harry licks his lips, shifting his stance a little nervously. ‘We’re drafting a counter appeal to present during the Geneva hearing. Hermione can’t Portkey that far pregnant. It’s just six days.’

Draco nods. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Barely a week.’

_ ‘Draco.’ _

Draco closes the space between them and kisses Harry softly, briefly. 

A consolation kiss. 

When they pull apart, he cups Harry’s face in his palms. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.’

‘Are you?’ Harry asks, eyebrows raised. ‘Why did you lie to me about seeing the Weasleys?’

Draco drops his hands. ‘Because I knew you’d worry if I told you anything else.’

‘Like what? The fact that you haven’t left the house since I’ve been gone?’

‘That’s… an exaggeration.’

‘You said you had lunch with Theo Nott, that your mother took you shopping —that you were getting out. Were those all lies, or am I exaggerating now?’

Draco rolls his eyes and walks away. ‘What the fuck is everyone’s obsession with getting me out of the house?’

Harry grabs him by the elbow, bringing Draco up to a halt. He turns Draco to face him, and Draco, feeling like a petulant teenager, folds his arms across his chest.

‘Draco, we’re just worried about you,’ he says. ‘Can’t you understand that people worry about you sometimes?’

‘ _ I’m fine _ .’

Harry releases Draco’s arm and stuffs his hands into his pockets. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I know—’

‘No, you  _ don’t _ know,’ Draco interrupts, his voice low. ‘I’m fine. Okay? I’m used to being alone. I  _ like _ being alone. If I want company… it’s usually yours’

Harry’s expression softens, but he doesn’t let up. ‘And the drinking? Not eating? Can I worry about that?’

‘I don’t drink that much.’ Draco ignores Harry’s sceptical look. ‘The eating thing. I just… I forget sometimes,’ Draco shrugs, digging his heel into the loose earth beneath his shoes. ‘Maybe you’ve forgotten, but the last few years haven’t exactly been  _ normal _ for me. I forget about  _ normal  _ things. I—’

Harry slips his arms around Draco’s waist, cutting him off mid-sentence, and pressing a kiss to the side of Draco’s neck. ‘Hey,’ he says, leaning back to catch Draco’s gaze. ‘You’re normal.’

Draco nods, his throat suddenly too constricted to speak.

‘Maybe a little pale,’ Harry says, biting Draco’s chin lightly. ‘And a bit pointy.’

‘Shut up.’

‘But there’s nothing wrong with you. Got it?’

Draco rolls his eyes and steps out of Harry’s grasp. ‘Yeah. I got it.’

‘You just need something to occupy your time.’

‘You’re right,’ Draco drawls. ‘Maybe I could clean houses for a living. I’ve certainly got enough practice.’

‘Don’t be a dick,’ Harry says, his eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe you should think seriously about trying for you NEWTS this time.’

Draco laughs shortly. ‘A twenty four year old Death Eater NEWT student.  _ That _ won’t make the gossip columns at all.’

Harry looks at him for a moment, then he sighs, apparently giving up. He reaches for Draco’s hand. ‘Do you want to go back inside? Molly’s fine if we just take off, she knows you’re…’ he trails off, apparently unable to think of the right word.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Draco says. He chews on the inside of his lip, all at once feeling strangely vulnerable. ‘When do you leave?’

‘The Portkey is taking us to Geneva tonight.’ Harry slides his hand into Draco’s palm, lacing their fingers together, giving Draco a gentle squeeze. ‘We have a lot of ground to cover if we want to have a convincing proposal by Wednesday.’

Draco nods, his gaze following the path of another rogue garden gnome

Harry tilts Draco’s chin up with a gentle nudge, and forcing Draco to meet his gaze.

‘Six days,’ he says. ‘Then I’ll meet you in Greece.’

He kisses Draco, a deep, lingering kiss that relaxes all the tension in his body, and Draco sighs, letting Harry pull him close, letting him run his fingers through Draco’s hair.


End file.
